"Cellular Chaos, black sheep of Brooklyn’s DIY noise-punk underground, have trudged on through myriad iterations, losing bassists at a furious clip and trading in drummers for drum machines while going label-less for a bulk of their lifespan. Still, these provocateurs have managed to churn out their gnarly and sweaty mishmash of glam raunch, rock histrionics and no wave noise-fuckery with a take-no-prisoners attitude.

Despite the roadblocks, Flying Luttenbachers mastermind Weasel Walter and vocalist Admiral Grey, the two constants of Cellular Chaos since its inception a half decade or so ago, have persevered, shoring up their lineup recently with drummer Rad Chaines and signing on with noise-rock institution Skin Graft Records.

That union has yielded fruit in the form of their Skin Graft debut, "Diamond Teeth Clenched", a scorched-earth statement propelled by animalistic wailing, neck-snapping guitar blowouts and a rhythm section (the since-departed bass/drums combo of Shayna Dulberger and Marc Edwards) to die for."

- Brad Cohan

album review by Doug Mosurock
Still Single/Dusted Magazine:

RECOMMENDED

"You tell me you’ve had it with Weasel Walter? Man, fuck off with that noise. Not compromising an inch with this, his most accessible band in years, Cellular Chaos teams his hardest-working-man-in-no-wave skills on guitar with the midnight thud of Ceci Moss’ bass, the scream/soar vocals of Ms. Admiral Grey, and in some sort of coup, the megalith drumming of sexagenarian free jazz percussionist Marc Edwards (he of Red Sprites and Blue Jets, a trio recording from the late ‘90s with Sabir Mateen and Hill Greene that ranks as one of thee heaviest blasts of the decade), here playing in the post-punk pocket, and even coaxing out blast beats when required. C.C. has been toiling around NYC for a few years now to little acclaim, mostly like Tuesday nights at Death By Audio. My question: WHYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!? This is the first band I’ve heard to squeeze any life into the genre using traditional rock band instrumentation since fuckin’ JAKS hit the pavement with Hollywood Blood Capsules, but while that record/that band toiled under the mantle of college town Goth poverty in the era of 97 cent gasoline, Cellular Chaos has its own post-modern demons to wrestle: the primary struggle to survive in a city that’s rapidly losing its taste as creativity collapses inside of a MacBook, pastiche is misconstrued for talent, and the softest ideas win, abetted by non-thinking audiences disguised as fickle, filled with people who think they have more of a draw as attendees at the show rather than give it up to the band. And that’s pretty low/hard to do, because every last second of this record is EARNED – tightly composed, regimented punk spuzz laden with ideas that (gasp) ACTUALLY WORK, educations and experience channeled into true, forward-thinking RAGE that flashes outward upon vacancies and burns out all the dust and oxygen in the room (as well as between your ears). Riffs, too, enough to get you moving. I receive a lot of good, even great records coming through here, but also SO MANY SHITTY ONES that it threatens to kill what this whole thing is about. Can’t 300 of you get behind this legitimate MONSTER of today? Because if you don’t, they’ll break up, and I’m gonna come up to Bushwick and break your fuckin’ nose. All of you. Line up. Clear vinyl."